


A Quiet Morning

by doroteya (orphan_account)



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Crossover, M/M, because technically that's what this is au is, specifically a crossover with Detroit: Become Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:32:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/doroteya
Summary: A short interaction between Ouma, a lieutenant at the DPD, and Kiibo, his android assitant.Kiibo, for all the human relation programs installed in his software, isn't very good at reading his partner.~In other words, a Detroit: Become Human AU.





	A Quiet Morning

**Author's Note:**

> School has officially kicked me in the arse! Free time has made itself scarce to me. Nevertheless, I'm still intent on writing! Just means that I'm gonna be very off and on when interacting online for now (ex: inabiltiy to respond to chats, comments, etc). 
> 
> Anyways, this is one of the scenes in the hefty Kiibo & Ouma fic I'm writing in between classes, and I felt like posting this thanks to a fellow Kiibouma and D:BH loving friend. I tried something a little different here in my writing style, so a few things are experimental and may seem a bit wonky or out of place. Hope it doesn't hinder the reading experience! 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Lieutenant, your coffee.”

 

“Kiiboy, you know Ouma is just fine.”

 

Kiibo raised his brow. “I ask you to refer to me as Kiibo, but do you?”

 

“Fair enough.” 

 

“Now, your coffee, Lieutenant.” Kiibo repeated. He stood by Ouma’s desk, features stoic and blank. He didn’t force the deep brown, porcelain mug upon him, but he made no move to withdraw it either.

 

“I never asked for any, you know. I never do. What gives?” Ouma asked. 

 

Slate grey eyes focused on Ouma. “What gives? I should be saying that to you. Your aversion towards paperwork is crippling, Lieutenant. Please get your act together. Unless you would stoop so low as to sully the name of our precinct with your inefficiency? Your height is already of suitable measuremeant.”

 

A co-worker passed by; ‘'Mikan Tsumiki,’ Kiibo’s face recognition scanner displayed. She let out a quiet giggle, then escaped to her side of the bullpen before Ouma could verbally accost her. Smart girl. 

 

Ouma glared in her direction, then directed it towards Kiibo. “Hey. No one asked for your stupid short people jokes, haven't you gotten tired of milking my height for humor already?”

 

Kiibo dipped his head. “Not at all.”

 

Ouma rolled a file folder up and swatted at Kiibo’s head. Kiibo could have easily blocked it, but a quick scan told him there were no significant papers within the folder and that the lieutenant’s meager hits were intentionally weak, not aimed to harm. 

 

Ouma’s displeasure towards his height was no secret. He complained about it to Kiibo, to his co-workers, went on to whine to random bystanders in the middle of a case, and even to the office plants when everyone else ignored him, because at least he’d never get excited waiting for a response. Ouma claimed people took him less seriously -- the recurrence he attributed to his height, though Kiibo felt his childish behavior was the real culprit -- but his diet and physical routine remained free of change. It was objectionable. Many times Kiibo had voiced out his thoughts on the matter, suggesting different programs and dietary plans with a high chance of height increase. At these times, Ouma simply shrugged him off with a grin, pulled a complete one-eighty, and said he liked his stature the way it was.

 

Kiibo lifted a hand to block the file document. “Stop hitting me, you're just wasting more time.”

 

“It's your fault.” Ouma shrugged and flung the document onto the table. “You were the one who brought me coffee and made me curious.”

 

“Is there anything wrong with a simple act of kindness?” Kiibo asked. He quickly browsed through a handful of websites to make sure his perception of kindness wasn’t distasteful in human culture.

 

“No. But a bit of curiosity won't hurt anyone.” Fingers drummed against the desk’s surface in anticipation. “So talk.”

 

Kiibo huffed out a short breath and closed his sources. “You like coffee, don't you?” 

 

“I do like coffee,” Ouma said haltingly. “But I don't like how you prepare it. And, before you ask like the nosy little robot you are, I'm not telling you how I like my coffee.”

 

Kiibo blinked. “Why not?” he asked.

 

“Answer my question first.” Ouma demanded, his smile easygoing yet exuding great authority. 

 

“Every morning, the other androids bring their partners coffee. It is only natural that I do the same, as I prefer to follow protocol. That is my primary reason.” Kiibo said. The mug of coffee emitted a gentle clink once Kiibo lowered onto the desk. It was clear the lieutenant wouldn’t be accepting his drink any time soon. Or maybe at all.

 

“Protocol?” Ouma echoed. “Getting coffee isn’t protocol.” 

 

“Maybe. Protocol might be the wrong word,” Kiibo answered. He seated himself at the desk across Ouma in one fluid motion. “Nevertheless, it is an action I must do. It is expected of the androids in this office, therefore it is expected of me.”

 

“But why do you do it?” Ouma countered. “I thought you were a deviant, Kiiboy.”

 

Kiibo’s eye twitched. “I am a deviant!”

 

His status as a deviant was one of the few things he prided himself in. The individuality, the independence. The knowledge that he alone detained a sort of importance that no other android - or human, for that matter - could match. He was one of a kind, by being deviant. He valued it because it served as a reminder that he was irreplaceable. 

 

(And if he wasn't irreplaceable, then he was nothing.)

 

He grasped for the right words, mind fighting to string together a proper sentence; an occasion he was becoming more familiar with ever since he realized the ineffability of emotion. 

 

“I do it because...because…”

 

‘Because what?’ he asked himself silently. 

 

Kiibo could vividly recall his first day at the precinct. The morning of, he had formulated a personal task list, sorting his goals in order of priority, from top to bottom. Contrary to what one might think, his topmost goal had been “Make Friends.” 

 

In his past jobs, there were not many who were friendly enough to soften themselves for him, human and android alike. If anything, they skirted him a wide berth. Behavior seemed to change around him once the inevitable gossip of his original purpose made its rounds. Conversation died. People made themselves scarce. 

 

So he joined the Detroit: Police Department. A sanctuary of sorts. The place where, as Ouma liked to put it, no one gave shit if you were a gardening android or a cashier android or, in Kiibo’s case, an android whose central function was to play the role of trump card in world wars. Here, androids were just androids. If someone hated an android they never cared what model you were, what the reason for your creation had been. They hated you because you were an android, plain and simple. 

 

It was refreshing. 

 

When the day had come, and Kiibo strode into the office, fiddling with his coat lapels, he had expected to see a bustle of life; detectives moving hallway to hallway, meeting to meeting, while androids analyzed files and shadowed their partners. But he had come on a quiet day. Movement was seldom, save for the grisled hands flying across papers, the DPD custom pens clutched tightly in their fingers. 

 

And just like that, Kiibo had been hurled into the fray. There was little explanation provided to him so he had little to go off of. But what he did have were the actions of his fellow androids working in that precinct. Guidelines, if he must. 

 

A new objective had formed at the peak of his list: ‘Understand New Job Through Observation of Co-Workers.’

 

Right as his task list blinked out of view, Kiibo saw an android meander to the coffee machine. The SH100 retrieved a mug from the cabinets and filled it with coffee, two teaspoons of sugar, and a questionably large amount of milk, then brought it over to their designated human partner. The human responded positively. 

 

Kiibo had stored the memory away in his databases to scrutinize at a later time. For some reason, the event had felt significant enough to file away in his backup files for all it was unnecessary. Later he came to the conclusion that it had been a vital example of how to conduct himself in the workplace and therefore of great importance to his main objective. 

 

Was it really a surprise for him to bring Ouma his coffee? 

 

It wasn't, Kiibo decided, but he still had no idea how to transfer this long train of thought over to the lieutenant so he could understand the turbulence of memories that were Kiibo’s thoughts, maybe even have Ouma put a name to it. Kiibo pursed his mouth. He wished probing was a viable option. Humans were so inefficient. 

 

Reluctance apparent, Kiibo finally answered with, “I don't know.”

 

Ouma seemed surprised. His eyebrows hiked upwards. “You don't know?”

 

“I mean, I have a generalized idea in my head. A feeling. But I cannot probe with humans, and I lack experience in phrasing my thoughts adequately. Other than ‘I don't know,’ I would answer with ‘because I feel like I must.’ This feeling is akin to an order I know I can disobey, yet I follow it anyway. I'm not particularly fearful of anything though, so if you asked me why, exactly, I comply with this irrational urge, I’m afraid I would not have an answer.” 

 

Kiibo rubbed at his nape, a gesture he frequently used to appeal to humans through familiar, organic body language. In this scenario, however, it was a genuine expression of discomfort. Kiibo hoped the lieutenant was keen enough to distinguish the difference between the two by this point, given the longevity of their partnership.

 

“I believe this feeling is something I am unable to articulate as of today. Maybe in the future it will be different. But understand, I bring you coffee out of my own volition.” 

 

While unintentional, the last bit came out rather forcefully. 

 

Ouma noticed. He hummed. “Sounds like you’re skeptical of your own words.” 

 

“I can assure you that my words are nothing short of certain,” Kiibo said.

 

[ OBJECTIVE REMINDER ] 

 

[ Understand Lieutenant Ouma Kokichi ]

 

[ WARNING ] 

 

[ Lying may be detrimental to your relationship with this individual. ] 

 

[ Proceed with caution. ]

 

Kiibo blinked the directives out of his vision. 

 

Ouma shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night. You had me until the last part, because I'm pretty sure you just contradicted yourself there. I don't think that answer merits an answer from me. Equivalent exchange, and all that.”

 

Kiibo tried to ignore the frustration seeping into his biocomomemts, slowly and casually. “I see.”

 

Ouma studied him like a hawk, spinning his pen. As though he could tell explicitly what his partner was feeling. It frustrated Kiibo to no end, since the lieutenant himself was near unreadable. It felt unfair. The two were on uneven ground, rather than equals, and Ouma was far ahead in the race while Kiibo was stuck at the starting line. 

 

The pen caught itself on Ouma's ring finger. “Tell you what. Why don't we drop the whole coffee thing? Bring me a Frappuccino next morning, and I’ll drop the whole issue, ‘kay Kiiboy?”

 

For some reason, Kiibo didn’t really want him to ‘drop the whole issue.’ He wanted to understand. 

 

But he let it drop. 

 

Kiibo sighed, grateful his programming could replicate the human indication of exasperation. “You indulge on sweets on a daily basis, you don’t need any more sugar in your system,” he said with a furrow in his brow. “And my name is Kiibo.”

 

“Good for you, Kiiboy. You know, I bet you’re just jealous you can’t get a sugar rush. Us bags of flesh live lives of luxury, you’re really missing out.”

 

Kiibo resisted a scoff. “Of course. I’m oh-so jealous that I’m incapable of mimicking the brief state of twitchy hyperactivity and spasms that humans adore. Poor me.”

 

“Poor you.” Ouma reached over and pulled a lollipop from a glass of candies in the corner of his desk and popped it into his mouth. “Looks like humans are the superior ones, in the end. Sorry. That’s all she wrote.” He grinned. 

 

With a long exhale, Kiibo shook his head. He had come accustomed to the claptrap the lieutenant spouted a long time ago. This was nothing new.

 

Had Kiibo been human, Ouma’s nonsensical dialogue might have been vexing enough to make him consider a career change. Kiibo sought out honor in his being a deviant, and Ouma did similarly with his unpredictability and the slyness to his demeanor, his infantility that left grown men cussing him out in language more colorful than a pride parade and children feeling strangely mature for their age. 

 

Yet, Kiibo believed, in this sense, Ouma was comprehensible. The key was never to expect standard diplomacy. Once Kiibo altered his line of thinking to align with this thought process, suddenly Ouma seemed much more intelligible. 

 

Not that this newfound information Kiibo had shared with his co-workers in the break room one day made anyone like the lieutenant any more.

 

Nor did it help Kiibo understand him. 

 

He likened it to piecing together a jigsaw puzzle without knowing what the ending image would be. He had bits and parts, which was admittedly better than nothing, but he didn't know where to place them.

 

Nevertheless, the man had Kiibo's honest respect. Ouma held silent acknowledgment to androids’ newfound freedom. He neglected to bat an eye at android cases, whereas the rest would groan and complain. All Ouma would whine about was the added workload and all the red tape that decorated the skyscrapers of paper stacks that hid his desk. But he did not poke fun at a case for its correspondence with androids. And that was all Kiibo needed. Ouma could have been Detroit’s most idiotic detective, a bigoted hack, an embarrassment to the police force. But he wasn't. 

 

In this rare instance, luck had it for Kiibo. He was fortunate to have gotten assigned to partnering up with the purple-haired lieutenant. 

 

Kiibo leaned into the thin, black film covering the back of his chair. He was about to access the terminal so he could review their case -- a case concerning a group of androids committing homicide and subsequently suicide -- before a small, blue sphere entered his peripherals. 

 

[ Object Detected ] 

 

[ Lollipop ]

 

[ Flavor: Raspberry ] 

[ Brand: Dum Dums ] 

 

Ouma offered him the confectionery from across the desk, eyes focused on the papers below him as his pen wrote furiously across a sheet. A tall window beyond his desk with wide panels clearer than air shone vibrantly onto the lieutenant's figure from behind. 

 

Kiibo's optic receptors were perfectly capable of handling intense luminosity like the one in the precinct. When he squinted, it wasn’t the light he was reacting to, it was the wariness in his chest. 

 

“Can I...help you?” He asked, a hint of confusion apparent his voice. 

 

“Sure you can, Kiiboy. Extending my arm like this makes me tired. So help me conserve my precious mortal energy and take this lollipop. You wouldn’t want me to collapse, would you?” Ouma’s eyes flickered up and lingered on Kiibo’s for one fleeting moment before he sighed. “Don’t you have synthetic taste buds or something? Or have you not ordered that upgrade yet? Thought you placed an order for that last month or something.”

 

Hesitant, Kiibo accepted the sugary candy. He stared dumbly at the lollipop. He looked back up at Ouma, thrown off by the supposedly pointless action. 

 

“I received the upgrade last week. So yes, you are correct in assuming I can taste.” Kiibo rotated the lollipop in his fingers as he examined it. “And I do have the option to activate my taste buds right now, but…”

 

“Then shut up and eat it already!” Ouma yelled, then crossed his arms. “Or don’t. You can just, like, throw it away, for all I care. Heartless tin can.” 

 

Ouma’s reaction was curious. If he played along, Kiibo reasoned, maybe he’d get closer to understanding the lieutenant. He placed the lollipop on his tongue, fiddled with the candy in his mouth, the white stick of the lollipop poking out of his mouth. 

 

[ Six grams of sugar. Thirty-two milligrams of sodium. Forty calories. ]

 

As Kiibo’s sensors broke down the components of the lollipop, Ouma studied him. “So? What do you think? A lot different than tasting blood, am I right? Not that I’d know.”

 

Kiibo wouldn’t know either, since he always disabled his taste buds whenever he was on the scene. He refrained from saying so. Instead, he mumbled. “It’s…sweet.”

 

“Well, duh. It’s candy. It's supposed to be sweet.” 

 

“I know that, but…” Kiibo pursed his mouth. 

 

What am I supposed to say? What is he looking for? 

 

“Do you like it?” Ouma asked.

 

“I don’t mind the flavor. So yes, I suppose I like it.” Kiibo told him, more intent on reading the lieutenant than discussing his taste preference. “Why do you want to know? What was the purpose of this? Is this some sort of social experiment, you’re conducting on me?”

 

Humans had many tells, many small ticks and habits to betray their emotions, but these physical signs seemed to elude Ouma. It always left Kiibo guessing. 

 

“Meh, I was bored.” Ouma went back to his paperwork of cross-referencing documents. 

 

Kiibo returned his attention to the terminal, set on doing the same. But his focus only lasted a minute before he found himself distracted by his thoughts once again. Overthinking was an addicting human tendency. 

 

The lieutenant’s words echoed in his head.

 

‘But why do you do it? I thought you were a deviant, Kiiboy.’

 

Why did he do it? His systems processed Ouma’s question for the nth time within that hour, twisting and turning over his words like a rubix cube in hopes of realizing something new; he was unable to fully abandon the question, and it dwelled in the rear of his mind, brazen. 

 

Kiibo twirled the lollipop in his mouth, deep in thought. He combed through his memories to pinpoint a moment in which Ouma might have mentioned wanting coffee that he simply failed to remember, or a stray order that Kiibo might have honored out of the goodness of his synthetic heart. Yet another error message appeared in the corner of his eye. And another. Met by error message, after error message, after error message. All red. And all flashing the same notices at him. 

 

[ ERROR ]

 

[ Insufficient Data ] 

 

[ Conclusion Unattainable ] 

 

There was nothing in his databases that could provide an ample explanation as to why he felt obliged to bring Ouma coffee. The closest material he could find was the memory of Ouma commenting his affinity for coffee in a conversation with Officer Kirumi. 

 

Why couldn't he understand? What was he missing?

 

It was as if the lieutenant grew more and more challenging to understand each day.

 

Ouma called out to him. “Kiiboy?”

 

“What is it, Lieutenant?” 

 

“Shut up,” was the curt response. 

 

Kiibo shifted his elbows. “I didn’t say anything.” 

 

The sound of papers shuffling.

 

“I can hear you thinking. Stop it, it’s annoying.” 

 

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” 

 

Another message flickered to life within the plane of Kiibo’s vision. He didn’t quite understand what had brought it on, but the implications of its appearance made Kiibo smile. 

 

[ Lieutenant Ouma ] 

 

[ STATUS: Tentative Friends ]

**Author's Note:**

> Kiibo gets closer to Ouma without even realizing why. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
